


learn to give welcome again

by Mira_Jade



Category: 18th Century CE RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Turn (TV 2014)
Genre: . . . I could not resist, Bickering, Boys Being Boys, Character Study, Gen, Introspection, Possible Future Scenario, Really just my excuse to write Hamilton and Benjamin bantering before we meet Turn!Hamilton
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-30
Updated: 2016-05-30
Packaged: 2018-07-11 05:55:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7031779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mira_Jade/pseuds/Mira_Jade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Be that as it may, I was under orders not to take my . . . disagreement with General Lee any further than I already had.” Curiously – alarmingly so - Benjamin felt the need to defend his loyalty to Washington grow as coaxed embers, violently restored to flame. His hands fisted in answer to the rising tide of his ire; his heart thundered as if he was immured in the heat of battle, facing off against a foe on the field instead of the closest of compatriots – an indubitable comrade in arms. </i>
</p><p>  <i>Yet – apparently aware of the reaction he was inciting, and only seeming to encourage such a blaze -  Hamilton's eyes glittered in an insufferable way to drolly remark, “As was I, Major, as was I.”</i></p><p>Wherein the Culper Ring grows with the inclusion of those that Alexander Hamilton would consider dear to him – but not without him first ascertaining the worth of the man who would be responsible for each of those in the Mulligan household. Of course.</p>
            </blockquote>





	learn to give welcome again

**Author's Note:**

> As happy as I am to see that _TURN_ is getting its own Alexander Hamilton cast, I had to get this scenario - which I suppose you could call a crossover for my inability to separate Lin-Manuel Miranda from the character - out of my mind before the show writers beat me to the punch. To do so, I had to find a happy medium between the show and musical timelines to make this work - so there are some discrepancies, but I trust you can suspend disbelief enough to enjoy the bickering. Which, along with some incidental character study, was truly my entire reason for writing this.
> 
> As always, I thank you all for reading, and I hope that you enjoy!

In the time since his promotion to head of intelligence, his contact with General Washington's aide-de-camps was oftentimes as varied as it was primarily in passing, with the scope of the war mostly taking them their own ways, the one opposite from the other. When their duties did cross, Benjamin found that he did not mind the likes of Tench Tilghman and James McHenry – both of whom were honest soldiers and decent men, whose opinions he respected and whose characters he would commend even outside their roles as players in the theater of war. On a personal level, he could truly say that he enjoyed the company of the more militant John Laurens, no matter his somewhat sad half-smiles and sly moments of dark wit; turns in his mien which would creep up as weeds amongst the spring's grass of his more usual, heartfelt good humor. As seemingly a part of him as his shadow, there was a sharp line of steel to Laurens, and outside of the Marquis and the West Indian, there were few who could insert themselves close enough to dance around that bite for a true friendship – which Benjamin could understand in his own way, and respect from afar. He already had the brother of his heart in Caleb, he knew; he was simply glad that Laurens had someone who could turn his spirits for the better, as well.  
  
. . . even though, that said, he found that he could not _completely_ champion Laurens' taste in kindred spirits – for the only member of Washington's military family who gave him honest pause _was_ Alexander Hamilton. As with most who could claim the . . . pleasure of his acquaintance, his first meeting with Hamilton – in Morristown, shortly after their victories in New Jersey and his promotion - had been to introduce him to the rather raw edges of his wry, cutting humor, and he had been rubbed the wrong way from that very first syllable. Now, no matter that time had passed, nearly two years of serving on the same staff had yet to put his opinion to betters, not even by degrees. There was something . . . unsettling about the blade-cut edge of his eyes, and his lashing mouth carried a sting like no other he knew. Though Hamilton was a year younger than he, and had yet to finish his degree at King's College, Benjamin oftentimes felt as if _he_ was the one being counseled and educated by the patient indulgence of some magnanimous scholar. Though he'd never considered himself erudite, he _was_ proud of the marks he had graduated from Yale with, and he had been eager to pass his knowledge on to students of his own before the war had taken that opportunity away from him. But, when just one of those dark brows rose, and Hamilton regarded him with an indulgent, _measuring_ patience, he often felt as if he were grasping for straws as a first year student being quizzed on his Greek before a professor, and he cared not for the little, _inconsequential_ way any mind other than his own – unfortunately – admitted genius was regarded by the other man.

Which was not to say that he was not amazed by Hamilton's tale. To the contrary: the journey of the bastard orphan, born in a godforsaken corner of the Caribbean without any wealth or prospects worth mentioning besides those natural gifts of mind and mettle which God had bestowed on him, was a story that could scarce be believed. Benjamin respected him for how far he had come in life. He could even say that he admired how Hamilton had survived hurricanes and shipwrecks – both those figurative and literal – to, regardless of the trials in his life, secure himself at the right hand of the father of their country. It was a story fit for the Bard's pen – or Homer's, he better thought – rather a true tale of flesh and blood. Sometimes, it was a tale that could scarce be believed - no matter the amazing, world defining days their new nation was currently writing with the pen of history - words which even _he_ was adding his own narrative to, and watching as the pages were bound. 

Yet, for all that was incredible – inconceivably astounding and _immense_ \- about his life's course, Hamilton still looked on the world as one hungry, and Benjamin had not yet brought himself to trust what the other man would consume in his quest for satisfaction.  
  
And yet, perhaps . . . if he was completely honest with himself, what was more than that:  
  
_“You're jealous,”_ Caleb had once proclaimed with more precision than grace on a cold night in Valley Forge, one where they relied more on their watered rum to warm themselves than the small embers they were able to coax from their campfire. _“Outside of our dear Marquis Frenchie, good ol'_ _General_ _George has a favorite son – and it ain't you. To add insult to injury: the_ _little Creole shite_ _just happens to be a_ _n infuriatingly_ _smug_ _sort of_ _bastard – no slur on his dear mother intended – and that must rankle something fierce with you, Tall-boy, admit it.”_  
  
His rolling his eyes and telling Caleb to _shut up_ before pointedly taking another long draw from his flask had not disguised the fact that his friend's words had cut too closely to the heart of the matter – but that was something he would never admit to another soul but at gunpoint, and perhaps not even then. It was, he reasoned to himself, only natural for so young a staff to look on their general with a respect that bordered on what sons felt for a father. It would, this he had to imagine as true, be much the same in any army led by a commander worth following.  
  
Yet . . . even then, he could admit that his own heart, perhaps, was more complicated to define than Caleb would say. He had always been certain of his own father's love and approval; he knew the absolute certainty of his affection, and trusted that affection to survive his best moments as well as his worst. With Washington . . . there, he felt more of a fierce desire to prove himself, to earn each and every ounce of trust that was placed on his shoulders and thus validate his commission tenfold. More than fighting for a faceless king an ocean away, this ability to _choose_ to follow the man who was America's best chance to be _America_ was a liberty he knew to cherish, and if, through his efforts, his commander's regard could be returned in even the slightest of ways . . .  
  
_“I am not your father, and you are not my son,”_ Washington had so baldly stated, what now felt like a lifetime ago. There had been some great emotion in his voice - rawly expressed but yet so far past Benjamin's ability to understand – even to he, who, more so than most fighting for their cause, was tasked with understanding hearts and minds as he moved individuals on the chessboard of their conflict, rather than entire armies of men, and yet . . .  
  
Perhaps, in the simplest of summaries, he could say that for Hamilton to so clearly refute what Benjamin himself could admit that he desired was the base of what Caleb would call _jealousy_. For Hamilton to stand with such an irreverence before their commander-in-chief - to push and prod and pry, to argue and dispute and buck as a spirited horse would fight the weight of a cart and the restrictive pace of a canter . . . Hamilton seemed to think, Benjamin could not help but privately accuse, that he himself could perform Washington's duties with greater aplomb and more easily triumph over the incredible odds stacked against them – and only his name and age and lack of worldly wealth and experience kept him from doing so. Though, at first glance, others would sniff and slyly see only a man without sons and a fatherless boy finding a natural counterpart in the other, Hamilton was determined to stand on his own two feet, and Washington stonily let him, time and time again.  
  
Perhaps it was that which Benjamin could not understand . . . mayhaps it was _that_ which he could not move past in order to seek Hamilton out under the shade of true friendship. And so, a strict professionalism existed between them - broken only by the other's too quick words and snide bursts of informal barbs, which Benjamin himself bore in his turn, time and time again. For he had already well learned his error in looking for cracks in their own camp when there was a veritable chasm to cross between they and their true enemy. No more would he widen not even a single fissure amongst their ranks when they needed to be a cohesive unit, not if he could help it.

Yet, be that as it may, their carefully unmentioned line in the sand was unwittingly crossed when a note from Samuel Townsend arrived through the Culper ring, noting of a regiment bound for Quebec – but truly intended for the south, he better thought, though he would have to sift through the clues of intelligence to better decide – only to then add that his information came from a man he had found to pose as the latest link in their chain. This was a man whom he could personally vouch for – and, he'd added, was near and dear to one Alexander Hamilton if further belief in his credibility was to be sought . . .  
  
That man was Hercules Mulligan, and he and his family were the household who had taken Hamilton in as a boarder when he first reached America's shores. Hercules Mulligan was an Irishman and a graduate of King's College, who was now a successful clothier of the elite – of the _British_ elite in New York City. Also to his use was his banker brother, Hugh Mulligan, who handled much of the British's money, and an Abigail of a wife who was niece to Admiral Sanders himself - all of whom would be keeping their eyes and ears open and reporting through Townsend and Abraham . . .  
  
The possibilities this newest development presented were endless, and Benjamin felt his heart speeding to move his blood quick and hot through his veins as his mind spun and drew its own frenetic web of plots in conclusion. Though his midsection still smarted from his still healing wounds, and protested the movement, he turned a well worn trail through the grass outside of the general's tent, waiting as Washington first took counsel with Hamilton over the matter, in private. His wishing to do so was something that Benjamin could understand. Spycraft was no easy, nor _safe_ , work to carry out, no matter how necessary it was, and to accept that those closest to him would be embarking down a road where, if discovered, could only end in an ignoble death, or _worse_ . . . For any compassionate human being to accept that this was a fate from which they would be unable to lend aid in any sort of trade or rescue . . .  
  
. . . it was a pain Benjamin sometimes could not swallow against himself, and Abraham and Anna were simply two of his dearest friends – two links in the thick chains that held together his heart. For a man like Alexander Hamilton, who could claim every fond sentiment he had in the world in the form of a few, a precious few, and then ask them to . . .  
  
Benjamin could not make out what Washington was saying besides the faint, familiar rumble of his voice, and he only heard Hamilton's response once when his words came out too snide and quick to also be given quietly -  
  
_“I don't know if I can truly trust anyone who looks like a quizzical bugle for the vast majority of the time,_ _sir,_ _but if you command it of me - ”_  
  
\- his long, precise path of five steps forward and five steps back turned him away from the tent before he could hear the rest of Hamilton's sentence, and Benjamin's look darkened when he realized that he had just been insulted. Just that quickly, any moment's sympathy he'd entertained in his heart quickly vanished, and he scowled in time to hear the sharp rise of Washington's voice. The general's cool, long though it was kept, could spike with a hot, fierce heat when coaxed - and Hamilton, for all that Washington favored him above most, did know how to stoke that heat as often – and fervently – as few others wearing friendly colours could do.  
  
Waiting, but unable to hear anything more, Benjamin only had to repeat his path once, twice, and then -  
  
There was the sound of a muffled oath and fluttering canvas, and he looked up in time to see Hamilton emerge from the general's tent, his every motion tense with the repression of some strong emotion. He ran a hand over his face in deference to the growing heat of the late summer's day and scowled up at the humid, overcast sky before turning to narrow such a gaze on him that Benjamin instinctively felt himself frowning before his countenance smoothed over and something friendlier – but no less canny – took its place.  
  
“Ah, Major,” Hamilton greeted, extending his hand in a polite greeting. His smile was wide and easy, even when it did not quite meet his eyes. “I should have remembered that you were out here. I'm sorry if we kept you waiting for too long.”  
  
Benjamin blinked once, and then twice, his head tilting as he processed the unexpected extension of genial courtesy - before reminding himself not to stare like the quizzical dog he had just been compared to. He extended his own hand, and accepted Hamilton's brief, strong shake with a shallow bow to accompany it. Wondering, he took a moment to study the other man, looking for a clue as to how best put his own thoughts into words. With features more uniquely striking than classically handsome – punctuated by the coal black sweep of his hair, ever hastily bound away from his face as if he did not have the time to see to such a mundane task, and hands seemingly permanently stained with ink - Hamilton nonetheless had a gaze that battered as hurricane winds, with irises as dark as the cloudwalls that raged about the eye of a storm, and Benjamin felt the full force of that stare now.  
  
“It has been too long since we last had the pleasure of speaking,” Benjamin found his voice in order to exchange pleasantries. “I only regret that this time is accompanied by the . . . weighty subjects we now face.” He would not say _ill_ _tidings_ , as was his first instinct. For America this was a fortunate chance, a great opportunity, and he would not make light of that possibility in any way.

“Indeed, it has been much too long,” Hamilton returned, agreeing with his words. All the while, though the timbre of his voice was measured and thoughtful, his eyes flickered in a way that said that his mind had not ceased spinning some web of thoughts quite past Benjamin's ability to comprehend. “Though, I must have you know that there were some few who were quite . . . titillated to hear of your refusing to cow before Lee at Monmouth, Major. Though I do not regret being at Lafayette's side on the field, I do wish that I could have been there to see it for myself.”  
  
Even the memory of that moment – and the potent, warm affirmation in the general's eyes that followed – was enough to draw an old, satisfied smile from the corner of his mouth. “I thank you for saying so, Lieutenant Colonel,” Benjamin was honest in his pleasure at Hamilton's words. “Charles Lee was a disgrace to his command that day, and I was merely grateful to act in America's best interests . . . though I have since heard that you yourself were persuaded to take things a step further than that.”  
  
He was not the only one to hear – and then smile, offering a secret toast with Caleb – that Lee had been shot in the side as the result of a duel for the words he continued to spout regarding Washington's inability to lead. Lee had held to his vitriol even after the dishonor and ignominy of his court-martial, never mind that Benjamin knew that he was guilty of sins far worse than mere incompetence and insubordination . . . sins which would never be made public, but even now rattled in his mind the same as the lightning Benjamin Franklin was able to trap in a jar. The news of their duel had been quite welcome to hear – as a court-martial was not nearly equal the blood of his men who had fallen, and Benjamin's only dark regret was that he had not had the audacity to pull the trigger himself.  
  
“Oh, haven't you heard, Major? That was dear Laurens who had the pleasure of holding Lee to his words, not I.” But, no matter his demurral, Hamilton's eyes still gleamed, and his mouth quirked in a telling grin. “It was no more than any . . . decent patriot would have done.”  
  
In answer, Benjamin fought the dark urge he had to snort – well knowing of the strict orders Washington had to place Hamilton under in order to restrain him from retaliating against Lee's slander and lies . . . just as he recalled his stoked temper when he learned that the spirit of his orders had been disobeyed, if not the very letter of his command. Benjamin himself had been under similar such orders, denying his dead men just recompense, but he had nonetheless followed them as a dutiful soldier should. And yet, disconcertingly, Benjamin could only think: if he had the courage to disobey Washington's orders so, he would not have settled with a bullet in Lee's side. No. He would have shot him in the mouth.  
  
“Be that as it may, I was under orders not to take my . . . disagreement with General Lee any further than I already had.” Curiously – alarmingly so - Ben felt the need to defend his loyalty to Washington grow as coaxed embers, violently restored to flame. His hands fisted in answer to the rising tide of his ire; his heart thundered as if he was immured in the heat of battle, facing off against a foe on the field instead of the closest of compatriots – an indubitable comrade in arms.  
  
Yet – apparently aware of the reaction he was inciting, and only seeming to encourage such a blaze - Hamilton's eyes glittered in an insufferable way to drolly remark, “As was I, Major, as was I.”  
**  
**Benjamin could feel his heart thunder to pound against his ribcage, but he bit his tongue, counting to ten once – and then twice – while Hamilton continued to watch him as if searching . . . his dark eyes liquid with some thought that Benjamin was ignorant to discern. **  
**

“But,” Hamilton's voice was bright as he spread his hands, wordlessly offering a peace between them, “we are not here to speak of those who have departed from us in disgrace, are we?”  
  
“No,” Benjamin's agreement took a heartbeat too long to utter as he used that moment to force the tight sense of annoyance and terse defense from his words. He fought for professionalism once more, feeling as if – for all that he held a good few inches of height over the younger man – Hamilton was looking down on _him,_ the same as one would on a child in a temper, waiting for them to collect themselves for a mature conversation. He took in another deep breath, and when he spoke, he found that his voice was level once more. “Rather, we are here to discuss the inclusion of those . . . valuable assets who are prepared to keep their eyes and ears open in enemy held territory.”  
  
“Yes, the expansion of your Culper ring . . .” Hamilton confirmed, his voice popping over the syllables of _Culper_ as if they were a taste disagreeable to his palette. Instinctively responding to the acidulous note to his voice, no matter how slight, Benjamin felt his posture stiffening. The fist of his right hand tightened, relaxing only when Hamilton raised a curious brow at his stoked ire – he clearly seeing the reactions he was able to coax with a few well placed inflections in tone, and enjoying the results of his wordplay.  
  
The understanding rankled, and so, Benjamin went on to continue – mindful of the men in uniform swarming like bees in a hive as they went about their tasks, unwilling as he was to take even a friendly face for granted in times such as these, “The man in question took it upon himself to meet with our contact – apparently, he has a prior acquaintance with Cupler Jr., and used that to - ”  
  
“ - yes,” Hamilton cut him off, waving a hand to say, “I know the man in question well. I can vouch for his loyalties, and even commend his need to act the patriot - caught in that nest of red vipers as he is. And yet,” minutely, Hamilton's expression hardened and his voice went out as a whip crack, no matter how carefully pleasant he kept his tone of voice, “what I wish to question is the . . . _security_ this ring supposedly operates with. It is unsettling, Major, the setbacks and . . . mistakes, founded in poor judgment, that have already been made . . . _lethal_ miscalculations, no less, the breed of which, one could argue, could have been easily remedied at the root of their inception if only the head of which had - ”  
  
“ - now,” surprised into temper, Benjamin found himself interrupting, his own voice lashing out severe enough to match, “for you to suggest -”  
  
“ - such as dear old Mister Sackett - ” Hamilton continued as if not hearing his protest at all. “His death was a blow, keenly felt by more than you know – with his departure from this world occurring just when his wisdom was needed, then more so than ever.”  
  
As always, recalling the eccentric, deceivingly flippant, _bright_ man was as a piercing in Benjamin's gut, and he swallowed against the pain of his memories. His voice was a low, dry sound to his own ears when he challenged, “You speak of what you do not - ”  
  
“ - of what I do not understand? Perhaps. Perhaps not. And yet, I _do_ understand that your primary contact was recently incarcerated for some time in New York,” Hamilton nonetheless continued on - blithely so in the face of Benjamin's growing temper. “He was imprisoned as a spy, no less, was he not? Caught on some scheme, which, if thought through by a keener mind, would never have been attempted in the first place for the irredeemable holes and unanswerable questions it would – and has – undoubtedly aroused.”  
  
“Yet, you forget that our agent kept his Loyalist cover through the whole of his imprisonment. He was released, and the charges against him were dropped - ” Benjamin's teeth ground together to hotly say.  
  
“ - ah, and that is why his signal-woman is here, in camp, rather than continuing to aid your ring on Long Island,” Hamilton's sharp eyes only narrowed as he continued to speak over him. “She's a fetching girl, your tavern wench, no matter that she is clearly nursing a broken heart.” And something _considering_ in the other man's expression touched on a bruised, raw nerve in Benjamin - the same nerve that still called Anna _Annie_ and whispered _if I ever had a sister I wish she'd be_ _half such a woman as_ _you_ . . . remembering, at the same time, the gossip ever circulating about some latest conquest or . . . more unspeakable tastes . . . where Hamilton was concerned, just as he felt his own shame for having so recently given in to taking advantage of a woman's grief and need – echoes of a kindred spirit, he had then thought, and yet . . .  
  
“Tell me,” Hamilton nonetheless continued, unaware of the turmoil his words had stirred, “was her seeking refuge here your _confidential informant's_ work, or - ”  
  
“ - _sir_ ,” Benjamin had to clamp his mouth down on the honorific lest he let something of importance slip while his temper took him. He refused to lower himself to the level of base accusations being spouted before him, no matter how his every limb was tightening with the raw urge for violence, wanting him to strike and hurt and _make silent_. His eyes fumed, but he made a square line of his jaw to insist, “This interrogation is now over. I will not - ”  
  
“ - I agree. It has been sloppy work, all around,” Hamilton waved his hand as if _he_ were the one dismissing their conversation, “and, unfortunately, I find that I cannot share the general's high regard for so untrustworthy a - ”  
  
“ - then it is our _sloppy work_ which gave us information leading to victories at both Trenton and Princeton, which even _you_ must acknowledge as turning points in the war,” Benjamin found his voice a low, furious whisper to finally refute, stepping into the other man's shadow and lowering his tone so as to give his words to their ears alone. Even though Benjamin's every limb trembled from restraint, Hamilton merely frowned as if bored by his temper. The slighter man had to tilt his head back to meet his eyes, and yet Hamilton still managed to convey the stance of a giant while doing so. Wary before such a face, the part of Benjamin that was still quietly observant and calculating whispered _caution_ to his higher sense, even as he felt his words bubble over to hiss, “This is the same ring who has proven more than Lee's incompetence, but his _treason,_ just as it has saved the general's life more than once – all victories that, if not achieved, could have seen the end to our idea of America if they were instead defeats. We may be new to the ways of espionage when compared to the centuries Europe has had to perfect her methods, but just as we are young in this, we are young and _hungry_ , and we are learning fast. No matter our errors, I trust every agent in this ring with my _life_ , just as I would give _my_ life to save even a one of them from harm. I care not for your umbrage or your disrespect for _me_ , but you will respect _them_ , and the fine work they do, or so help me I will _make_ you - ”  
  
Yet, interrupting the angry, turbulent flow of his words was the low, mocking sound of applause, and he started to hear it. His tirade faltered, and Benjamin blinked, his comprehension slow to dawn as he looked down to see a slow, grudging smile stretching across Hamilton's face. Benjamin took one step back, and then a second, as if the distance he put between them could also grant him clarity - his mind swimming as Hamilton shook his head to chuckle, low and pleased, in the back of his throat. And still Benjamin's thoughts spun, struggling to keep up with the abrupt change of moods until -  
  
“Forgive me, Major Tallmadge, I know that I can be an ass,” Hamilton's mouth stretched in an honest expression – _for the first_ , that slow, clear part of Benjamin's mind whispered, “but I am not normally so _dishonest_ an ass, and I regret the subterfuge needed to assuage my worries . . . for you are an honest man, I do suspect, no matter all of this cloak and dagger nonsense with which you needs must operate, and you have quite put my mind at ease.”  
  
Benjamin blinked once, and then twice. For a moment, he could not quite find his words. “Sir,” he started slowly, trying to call his thoughts to order and so influence his words with a matching such precision. In the back of his mind, he thought he could hear what suspiciously sounded like Caleb's robust laughter at his expense: _My, my, my but you've been p_ _l_ _a_ _ye_ _d Bennie-boy. Woo-hoo, but it was a thing of beauty, wasn't it?_  
  
“General Washington speaks highly of the discretion with which you play spymaster, just as I know the boons your ring has granted America and her cause,” Hamilton waved his hand to say, passing his compliments off as if they were trifles on the wind. “And yet, you see . . . I had to make certain, and now, I think . . .”  
  
It was the first time Benjamin had ever heard Hamilton struggle for eloquence, when, usually, his words were a never ending fountain, ever building and spinning as if his mouth and mind were in constant, unerring accord. Benjamin watched as Hamilton frowned and pressed his lips into a bloodless line, his jaw locking as if fighting against some great emotion, and then, he thought that he finally understood. He felt his own rigid stance relaxing; his smarting pride and wounded sensibilities then healing as he exhaled, long and slow. A moment passed, and he then felt as if he could breathe once more.  
  
“I cannot guarantee the safety of any who operate in this ring, as you have already so noted,” Benjamin said after a moment of heavy silence, pregnant with promise. “And yet, I can vow to protect them to the best of my ability – to that end, I can swear the truest of oaths.”  
  
Something flickered through Hamilton's eyes, and he blinked. A moment later, the indefinable swell of feeling was gone, hidden as the sun behind grey clouds, and he snorted to say, “No one's safety is assured in a time of war – and I'll not object to my friend's aiding his country when he cannot pick up arms and do so as I have done. I'll not be the hypocrite in such a way. And yet, they . . . ” Hamilton frowned, and had to find his voice in order to say – so softly that Benjamin could not first hear the words he muttered, “Once was, they were all I had. I have more so, now – so much so that I, at times, cannot believe my good fortune, and yet . . .”  
  
Benjamin thought of Abraham – all loops and thin lines and easy gestures, no matter that the war had done so much to shadow his once open expression with guile . . . just as he thought of Anna and her sad smiles and the way she held her spine with iron and her eyes with fire to say _I can fight as well as any man,_ _how dare you think less of me to assume otherwise_ and he _feared_ -  
  
“ - they shall be looked after as if they were my own family,” Benjamin found himself addressing his own thoughts as much as he did the waiting, expectant look in Hamilton's eyes. “On this you have my word.”  
  
“That is all I needed to hear, Major,” Hamilton said – perhaps somewhat gruffly. He cleared his throat, and straightened his posture until he stood with a military precision once more, clapping his hands together once as if cutting through the thick cloy of emotion clouding the air between them. “Now that we can safely assure the general that we can behave with cordiality in the other's presence, as befits both senior officers and gentlemen, perhaps we should tell him so,” for the first, unwillingly, Benjamin found himself sharing Hamilton's wry grin with an echoing expression of his own. “Then, I _do_ have a few ideas for how to reinforce the secrecy and security of the ring. That is, if you'd permit my input?”  
  
Hamilton ended his words with a question, honestly put, and Benjamin felt his head incline in an affirmative before his higher reason made the conscious decision to do so. “Of course, Lieutenant Colonel, I'd welcome hearing your ideas.”  
  
“Excellent,” Hamilton reached over to clap him on the shoulder, even as he gestured to Washington's tent with his opposite hand. “Well then, let's inform _father-dearest_ of our cease-fire, and then we can get to work.”  
  
Benjamin felt his eyes roll of their own accord at the other man's words, his exasperation piqued once more, but that did not stop a chuckle from escaping his mouth as he turned and followed after Hamilton into the general's tent, content to be only a step behind.


End file.
